


V for Vaporous

by projectcyborg



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/F, other ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-07
Updated: 2004-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/projectcyborg/pseuds/projectcyborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>politics itself exudes a pheromone</p>
            </blockquote>





	V for Vaporous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michellek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellek/gifts).



> spoilers: "Privateers"  
> for: michellek in the amymandython, who requested Amy/Abbey porn with implied Amy/Donna (so yes, the CJ is gratuitous – but I didn't think she'd mind)  
> thanks: mandysbitch, the beta of my dreams

It's as if there's something in the air in the West Wing. Not the sort of substance that would trigger the militant sensors that she knows are screening the ventilation ducts overhead. Not the embedded staleness of an ancient edifice, too many times remodeled, where antique paneling cohabits uneasily with warrens of sterile cubicles. It's more an inexplicable warmth, as if the ceiling were flooding down incandescent light. The undetectable intensity clings to her skin, silken against her throat, her wrists, the arches of her feet. She's convinced there's a lubricant in the air, as effective as the pranksters loosening her nails and hinges, that's causing the button of her shirt to deftly slip open when she moves. Before the morning is over she,s given up trying to refasten it.

Amy's been in politics long enough to recognize the sensation. In the halls of government, the sediment of history is whipped up into a miasma of promise and zeal. Inhaling this ambient drug, you buzz with the euphoria of running a nation, changing the future, feeling the world watching over your shoulder. Politics itself exudes a pheromone, and its atmospheric effects make her want to rub her thighs together under her desk and tickle her naked toes against the carpet.

Then Abbey strides into her office, and she thinks the alchemical residue is actually emanating from her.

It's not as if Amy had never been in the Bartlet White House. But she didn't anticipate the way the immediacy of her employee status amplified the emissions Except perhaps she did, because in the shower that morning she'd continued upwards with the razor, shearing her labia of two weeks of fuzz. She told herself she'd bothered only because she'd awoken early with nerves, and had an extra hour before she needed to leave the house. Not, certainly, because it was necessary to turn up with a freshly-shaved pussy on your first day as the First Lady's chief of staff. Now she rather wished she hadn't, because the kiss of the air was making her wet, and without any fluff to catch it the fluid was pooling in her panties.

* * *

There's Abbey's smirk when she commands her to secure reproductive freedom in the Third World, and there's the sultry curl of her lip as she rests her fingertips on Amy's sternum, in the fissure framed by the wayward button. Over the course of the day, Amy has lost track of the distinction between one passion and the other. Abbey's exasperatingly idealistic demands for women's rights are inseparable from the waft of her perfume and the provocative, scarlet hourglass cinched in her suit.

"Ma'am," she murmurs, and Abbey's chuckle is rich as merlot as it bubbles into her ear.

"Say it again."

"Ma'am," with yearning in her voice. Because with Abbey she's always been eager to please.

With the clinical nonchalance proper to doctors, Abbey is unfastening Amy's pants and slipping her hand into the vee. She's stroking her bare lips imperiously through the wisp of cotton. "Recite your resume for me again," she purrs.

"Issues director for NOW, political director of Emily's List, founder of the Democratic Women's Forum," Amy says, breathlessly. Abby's expression is smug as she finds the wet spot. Amy musters enough indignation to consider protesting: it's not you – I've been like this all day. But then again, it probably was Abbey all along. Then her fingers inch under the elastic, slicking up over her clit, and Amy stops thinking. She falls back with her palms on the desk as Abbey fucks her, not feeling like she's been given permission to touch. Abbey's other hand reaches into the opening of her shirt, into the cup of her plunge bra, and pries her nipple into view. There's nothing clinical at all about the way she moans into Amy's breast as she bites it.

It's not adultery, is it, if she's the only one who comes? It's not sexual harassment if she's willing?

* * *

She's still flushed and throbbing when she appears in CJ's doorway. In the shadowy office, CJ is haloed in a pool of reading light. Rays are scintillating off her glasses, refracted by the particulate ardor diffused in the air.

"A woman's work is never done," Amy says.

CJ looks up, manages, "Amy, you made it through your first day without walking the plank?" before she's lost in giggles, trying to swallow them in her hand. For a moment Amy's stomach drops with the vertiginous certainty that she's been found out, that some lipstick smudge or rumpled seam is shouting 'I just gave it up to FLOTUS.' But then CJ has mastered herself enough to speak, ratcheting in the corners of her mouth by a tangible act of will.

"Look, that incident today with Griselda Hoity-Toity, I apologize for that – seriously. I wasn't hazing you, cross my heart. I wouldn't, um... I know how she gets."

"How she gets?"

"Mrs. Bartlet. I assumed she'd have the hazing covered."

"You think the First Lady was hazing me?"

"Well, perhaps not hazing so much as inciting." CJ giggles again, as if she's uneasy with her own conversation. Amy's never known CJ to be prone to giggling.

"Inciting me to what – stage a coup?" Grind my hips against her hand? The dizzying apprehension of imminent discovery mounts again.

"She likes to, ah, torment her staff. With a ruthlessness worthy of her piratical heritage, she hath cowed them to her will. She gets off on the power trip. With all due respect."

Amy raises one eyebrow, wonders if CJ speaks from experience. Her eyes travel down the placket of her shirt to the triangle of camisole peeking out of the vee.

"Is that... Do you wear that because of, you know, the button problem?"

"Oh, yeah. You too?" CJ bustles over to her and bends her head for a closer appraisal. Her breath eddies over Amy's collarbone as she handles a buttonhole. "Nope, you'll never get it to stay closed."

When CJ straightens, they're standing inadvertently near, and her fingertips linger on the exposed skin between Amy's breasts. Gravitas steams off the stacks of files on the desk, and Amy fancies she can see the vapor ghosting across CJ's lips, aphrodisiacal as Abbey's identical caress. So she kisses her, hard and sudden, tasting the acumen on her tongue.

By the time Amy is taking off CJ's camisole, the report she'd been reading is scattered on the floor, and there's a trail of bite marks meandering up the eloquent curve of her shoulder. As CJ rides her thigh, Amy squeezes a nipple and whispers, "The First Lady just fucked me."

"I know. She fucked me too, once."

"I'll fuck you harder." And as she slides her palm down CJ's satiny hip, Amy pictures Abbey's hands on them. Dimly, she registers the scrape and click of Carol discreetly locking the office door.

Splayed on the desk, with three of Amy's fingers plowing her, CJ comes silently, but an invisible haze explodes from every muscle in her body. Amy imagines their tryst will be circulating in the building for days. Afterward, CJ buttons up her shirt, yawning.

"Oy gevalt, we should go home before we turn into pumpkins. Hey, why are you working late, anyway? I never asked why you stopped by."

"Mrs. Bartlet wanted to see you if you were still here. Something about a media angle on the global gag rule. She's all fired up again."

"Sounds hot." This time, they giggle together.

* * *

Amy's preoccupied with humming 'Pirate King' as she breezes toward the exit, and doesn't think to pass more stealthily by Donna's desk. When Donna looks up from the computer, Amy stops, out of courtesy, and says, "Congratulations on Foreign Ops." It's inane, but at least the thrumming endorphins douse any temptation to sarcasm.

"Congratulations on the new job. Did you have a good first day?" Donna's cordiality seems strained.

"Yeah." Amy grins. The silence stretches between them, ribbonned with awkwardness like summer heat shimmering above asphalt.

"I'm sorry, I'm exhausted," Donna says finally, shaking her head. "It's late – you should go home."

"You too," she replies by rote, and turns to leave.

"You shouldn't do this to him."

"Excuse me?" Amy's tone is suddenly wary and hard, her relief at the easy getaway evaporated.

"Carol will whisper it to Margaret, who'll tell Ginger, who'll use it to tease Sam. You think everybody doesn't know who's fucking who in the West Wing?"

"Josh and I aren't together, Donna." Amy's measured diction is dangerous. "And neither are Josh and you."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't still care if you sleep your way through his friends. And I care if he cares."

"That's bullshit, Donna. Don't hide behind Josh."

Amy steps forward and brushes her fingers down the open vee of Donna's neckline, watches vindictively as she smells CJ on her hand. She strokes sideways to touch a remembered mole on the curve of Donna's breast, the one she used to kiss on her way to the candy pink nipple.

When Amy marches out, Donna is left breathing the atomized secretions of idealism and pandering, lust and politics, as she redoes the button on her shirt.


End file.
